


The Posies Sway

by JebbaPeppa



Series: The Moon Hangs Heavy [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JebbaPeppa/pseuds/JebbaPeppa
Summary: Yharnam isn't the pointlessly derelict vacation spot Callan thinks it is, and when he shows up to participate in the Hunt, he learns the hard way.
Series: The Moon Hangs Heavy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778680
Kudos: 8





	The Posies Sway

**Author's Note:**

> Because I've beat the game too many times and I've fallen in unrequited love with my hunter and I keep losing my flow for my other stories. Enjoy! :D

Save for the crackling of the burning pyres that lined the streets of Central Yharnam, silence greeted Callan as he passed through large double doors and into the dilapidated town square.

A fellow outsider, Gilbert, kindly pointed him in the direction of blood from his modestly barred window. Since Gilbert knew about as much as Callan did regarding matters of blood healing, heading over to the Cathedral Ward for answers and possibly blood would be his best bet. All of the locals Callan turned to to ask for directions more detailed than _just look for the aqueduct south of the Great Bridge_ either threatened or ignored him when he came knocking at their doors. Attempting to find said bridge blindfolded was the best he could do.

Sadly, with him so unaware of his surroundings and hardly a hunter worth his salt, it was difficult to account for the brick trolls lumbering in dark corners, and plague-ridden townsfolk stalking about with their rifles in hand and dogs at their hips.

—

"I know that smell. Are you a Hunter?"

"Only just." Callan answered, his hand curled loosely around the rusted metal of the bars decorating the foggy window. The blood of the locals and monsters alike smeared offensively wherever his fingers rubbed, but the girl didn't seem to mind. She did not cower at his masked face or bloodied cape, just stared with a youthful awe at the man picking idly at the flimsy bars.

"But still a Hunter," the girl insisted, "You fight the monsters outside."

"Only just." He said again, and the little one's hands came up to press upon the glass, the second barrier separating her from the nightmare outside.

" _You are a Hunter_." The girl pressed, and the desperate look on her face was enough to give Callan pause, "That means you can help find my mum."

Without a second thought, Callan blurted, "Finding mothers? That isn't a job for Hunters."

"But a Hunter helps! Won't you, Mister Hunter? I–I'm all alone, and scared." 

He couldn't imagine. She was an awfully expressive child, her mouth crumpled and her eyes seemed to droop with despair as she spoke. At the sight alone Callan was ready to swallow his words and promise, that yes, he would do his best to find her mum, but she continued before he could muster the heart to say it.

"Daddy never came back from the hunt, so she went out to find him. But it's been so long since my mum has gone. Please, Mister Hunter."

A beat passed, with a sigh, Callan murmured, "Of course. I will do as you ask."

"Really?" Her face brightened and it was all Callan could do to not grimace before he remembered that his face was covered.

"Thank you!" For a moment he could've sworn her eyes had gone glassy, "My mum, she wears a red jeweled brooch. It's so big and beautiful, you won't miss it!"

"Of course." Callan tipped his head and turned to leave.

"Oh, wait, I musn't forget!" When Callan tilted to look back at her she was gone from the window, but only for a moment. There was a split second of confusion when the window opened just a crack, and the little girl's arm came poking out through the bars. In her small pale hand sat an ornate little box.

"It's a music box," she supplied, "it plays Daddy's favorite song. We play it when he forgets himself, Mum is so silly for forgetting to take it with her."

Callan plucked the music box from her hand, offered her a polite farewell, and left the poor girl with a sense of foreboding in his gut.

—

He couldn't breathe.

Stumbling through a door and into the darkness of someone's home, Callan's breaths came short and uneven, his knuckles white as he held the brooch, so big and so beautiful, he held it to his chest in a tight grip. His mind snapped from image to image—a delicate white hand dangling from a roof, the mangled body attached to it, his own visceral imaginings of what Gascoigne had done to leave her in that state. He had been long gone, carving the corpses of beasts that marred the graveyard with a sort of aimless lethargy...

...The big, hopeful green eyes of the little girl when Callan returned, horrid news leaving his mouth before he could think better of it. It was awful, watching her fall apart in anguish. But he stayed outside the window, even after her cries tapered into silence and the lamp inside had gone out. He stayed and stared down into the hand that cut down her father, a beast, who'd given in to the Hunt. The hand that held the brooch, the blood coating the leather on his palm barely a contrast from the large gem set in gold.

He couldn't tear his mask away any quicker before he was sick on the cobblestone, and before he knew it he was falling through the first unlocked door he could find, retching and failing to find his breath.

He was only allowed to lie there in self pity for a moment before cold steel was pressed at his temple.

"You are lucky to know that I do not wish to use this. Only if I have to. Does it stand to reason that I may, indeed, have to?"

Callan, shocked to have been caught in this position so foolishly, shook his head, but quickly realized it wasn't good enough when the gun at his temple prodded more firmly.

"I haven't come to harm you." He said in a quiet rasp, wide eyes looking straight ahead at the wall. Surely, the man holding him at gunpoint could see that his cleaver was strapped at his back, his blunderbuss sitting pretty on his side. That he was so distraught he hadn't even thought of going for his weapons at first.

He counted the eight seconds it took for his attacker to release an exasperated breath and remove the barrel from Callan's head, allowing him to sit up and look at the man proper.

Chestnut hair swept across the man's forehead, making way for large round spectacles that framed eyes of a suspicious, pale green.

It was nearly enough to make Callan sick again.


End file.
